


MIKAKU

by words_of_a_broken_man



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bedannibal - Freeform, F/M, Hannibal - Freeform, Kinky, Missing Scene, Season/Series 02, Smut, Too Hot, bedannibal season 2, beneath the person suit, electric-couple, hannibal-bedelia, murder couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 11:22:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12057975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/words_of_a_broken_man/pseuds/words_of_a_broken_man
Summary: Mikaku: (noun, JAP) palate or sense of taste.For @electric-couple prompt season 2.A riff on the events between the bloodbath and plane flight.I'm primarily a screenwriter and shift by default to present tense for 'action scenes'  it's an intentional stylistic break.





	MIKAKU

 

* * *

“Have you taken into account my beliefs about your intentions?” 

“My intentions?”

“Human motivation can be little more than lucid greed.”

“Greed and blind optimism.”

“You’re optimistic I won’t kill you.”

 

****

 

Bedelia un-cocked the pistol and placed it gently on the bed beside her thigh.

“Not tonight. 

Hannibal paused, appraising her posture; long legs elegantly folded, fingers absently caressing the stem of her wine glass.

“No.” He mused. “Not tonight.”

She surveyed the bloodied clothes strewn across her bathroom floor; precision and fastidiousness absent, person suit in tatters.

“How much of that is your blood, Hannibal?”

“Some.”

“Let me see you.”

He emerged from the shadows dabbing his cut bottom lip with a washcloth, a bruise blooming high on the cheekbone beneath his right eye. She slipped the cloth from his fingers, rotating his hand to cast eyes across torn knuckles. Hannibal studied her gaze as she assessed the skin available to her eyes.

“No permanent damage, Bedelia. I assure you.” Hannibal gestured toward her glass. “May I?”

She offered the wine wordlessly, fingers brushing his as he elegantly procured the glass by the stem. Hannibal gave the contents an idle swirl and nosed it thoughtfully, anchoring himself in the sensation.

“Napa?” He took a quick mouthful and returned it, fingers lingering on hers. “Your cellar must be bare, Bedelia. Unlike you to favour such a brutish chardonnay.”

“It seemed appropriate, given today’s oeuvre.”

“You’ve been talking to the FBI.” A statement; never a question.

“Not by choice, Hannibal.” She rose slowly from the bed; he held his ground, momentarily forcing her into his proximity. Bedelia placed a hand gently on his chest, nudging him backward as her fingers trailed away absently. “I’ll get you some ice.”

He followed her to the kitchen, perching himself on a stool at the counter as she gathered a cloth and bowl of ice.

“Please, Bedelia. No need to fuss over me.”

Bedelia placed a wine glass down in front of him, splashing a measure before unceremoniously depositing a dishcloth full of ice atop the knuckles of his right hand. Hannibal held it there, stretching his fingers in quiet relief as the heat in his fist began to dissipate.

“Are you in pain?”

“Only what can’t be assuaged by ice and time.” He took a slow mouthful of wine, eyes briefly flickering shut as the liquid chilled and sated the fire within.

“And now?” Bedelia regarded him carefully. “No doubt you planned ahead.”

“Even our best laid plans are still subject to chance.” He avoided her eyes, shuffling the ice pack on his fist. “We have a plane to catch at five AM.”

“We?” Bedelia continued to study him. “And of all the players in your opus, whose lines shall I be reading, Hannibal?”

He exhaled; a careful pause for composition, eyes flashing as dark as he contemplated his response.

“I have extended you a courtesy once this evening, Bedelia.” Hannibal regarded her curtly, taking another sip of wine, pausing to swirl the contents of his glass before placing it back on the counter. “Don’t assume I will afford you another.”

Bedelia tipped her head to the side, intentionally breaking his gaze. Perhaps he wouldn’t kill her tonight, but what simmered beneath the veil was shockingly apparent, and brutally arousing.

“The penultimate moments of life are as intimate as the first.” Bedelia mused. “Did Will Graham show you discourtesy?”

Hannibal remained silent, raw. Unwilling to engage.

“Where are you taking me, Hannibal?”

“I am taking you nowhere, Bedelia. You may accompany me of your own free will.” Hannibal shifted the ice to his other hand, flexing his wounded fingers. “However, I make no guarantees for your safety should you choose to remain here alone.”

“Our destination?”

“Paris, for the time being.”

“No doubt I’ll read about your actions this evening regardless of where we find ourselves.” Bedelia cradled her glass; twisting the vice as she monitored his reaction.

“Indeed we both will.”

Hannibal emptied his wine glass. The metronomic pounding of the rain over the five-mile journey to her house may have served to still his mind, but the anger of betrayal simmered beneath his ever-measured façade. Shifting in his seat, he flattened his palms against the counter leaning toward her on the opposite side. The spread of his shoulders a tacit reminder of his size and strength as his eyes bore through her. His posturing having elicited the desired response, Hannibal relaxed, shaking his head sadly.

“There was no pleasure in this, Bedelia.”

“Where is the pleasure, Hannibal?” Bedelia traversed to his side of the crevasse, fingers trailing along the glacial marble bench top. He swiveled on his stool to face her.

“Pleasure.” Hannibal cocked his head, regarding her carefully. “Pleasure is an exquisitely temporal experience, Bedelia. Aroma, taste, sound… An apparition or a simple caress…. All sensation is unique, intangible and deeply personal.”

She closed the distance to anchor herself between his knees, one hand resting on his thigh the other on his chest. The scent of her soap on his skin devestatingly evocative; slightly aldehydic, with almonds, under-ripe apples and oats barely masking the raw, ferric aroma of blood… The visceral memory of his strong, steady hands cleansing her of her patient’s blood with unspoken tenderness came flooding back… She should shudder at the recollection, yet somehow, combined with a hint of his exquisite cologne and the smell of his freshly starched collar it was utterly thrilling.

“I can still smell blood.” She breathed, experimentally running a cool fingertip across the cut on his lip.

“Blood is the most primal, indelible aroma Bedelia. The first we experience.”

“And often the last.”

She cast a glance toward his wine glass; the smear of blood on the rim echoed the stain on her finger. He caught her hand; strong fingers encircling her wrist to draw it back toward his mouth. The tip of his tongue flashed across her fingertip, forcing an involuntary shudder of pleasure through her fine, lithe frame.

“How do you taste, Hannibal?”

He licked his bottom lip with a subdued chuckle, a thoughtful expression dancing across his features as his hand snaked around her hip, pulling her closer.

“The pleasure, Bedelia.” His hand winding through her hair, pulling her face down toward his. “Is entirely in how you taste.”

 

***

 

Their lips meet tentatively; sampling, suggesting; teasing. She bites down firmly on his broken bottom lip and it’s blood over chardonnay; jarringly incongruous and utterly exquisite as his tongue curls decadently against hers. Hands tangled in his hair, her fingertips strike a deep gash in the back of his skull. He withdraws with an involuntary hiss and there’s blood on her hands again, warm and viscous. In a single swift move he rises and deposits her on the counter; kissing her hard, hiking her skirt up in search of skin as he pulls her flush against him. She claws at his arms; muscle and sinew torque beneath her hands as he nips at her flesh; earlobes, neck, collarbone... The top two buttons tear from her blouse and her brassiere is pushed aside for the heat of his mouth, the sensation pooling immediately between her thighs. There’s urgency as she breathlessly fumbles with the buttons on his shirt. She finds a patch of searing hot skin high on his ribs; an obvious contusion, pressing her fingers deliberately into his flesh, demanding a response, wanting him to feel.

He groans against her lips, covering her hand with his and pressing it harder to his side.

“It’s all sensation, Bedelia.” He croons over the pain as she slides a hand down to palm him firmly through his trousers. He grinds into her touch, desperate for contact. “All pleasure.”

And she is perfect pleasure; white peaches, flint and honey from the chardonnay over ferric spike of his blood on her skin; bergamot, Amalfi lemons, sandalwood and spice where perfume dusts her neck. The aroma of rain clings to her clothing, but it’s the flawless, irresistible hit of clean, racy arousal and musk that spikes in his groin.

He grinds against her as they kiss; skirt hiked up beneath fingers, gripping her hips firmly as she fumbles with his belt and trousers until her cool grasp finds him. He peels away the scrap of fabric under her skirt to tease her, desperately hot and slick as she arches into his touch. He curls his fingers a little further. There was no release in the blood on his hands this evening, he barely broke a sweat; but this leaves him stumbling and breathless. Bedelia reclines luxuriously, spread before him in the most perfect, irresistible tableaux. His free hand shifts to her throat, a protective, controlling caress as he teases, her eyes flick open the second his grip tightens, meeting his shattering gaze. Hannibal withdraws his fingers, licking them clean with quiet satisfaction as his hand leaves her throat, dropping reflexively to tease himself.

Hannibal gathers her in for a kiss, filling her in a single swift motion. She shudders, an involuntary gasp escaping her as she grips him instinctively at the intrusion. He begins to move, steadily at first, but his resolve is weak and in this moment the perfect, searing vice of her is more than he can bear.

“Your taste is to be savoured, Bedelia.” His breath hot against her ear.

“I’m afraid…” He stumbles, consumed by her heat. Thoughts of spreading her before him like a banquet flash through his mind, but it’s time he doesn’t have and he’s gone.

“You’ll have to forgive me this time.”

She cuts him off with a rough kiss, teeth clashing, elegantly manicured nails tearing into the skin beneath his shirt.

“Harder…” She bites his earlobe, reclining back across the counter, one hand gripping the edge behind her head, the other drifting down to tease herself, back arching luxuriously as the tension swells between them.

He watches her intently, eyes dark with lust and wonder at her perfect form; skirt hiked, blouse askew, fingers dancing across her own skin as she unravels beneath his hands. For the first moment he comes to resent the great renaissance masters, ruing their sensibilities in comparison to the Japanese… Bedelia deserved to be rendered in oils, he would oblige but the sight was far too personal; this was only for him.

The tangle of Bedelia’s fingers across her flesh becomes feverishly uneven as she tightens around him; the urge to gather her into his arms as she crests almost overwhelming. He refrains, swooping down to bite at her nipples as she arches elegantly beneath him, flushed, skin glistening from exertion. She rises slowly from the counter, pulling his lips to hers.

“Let go, Hannibal.” She breathes.

He quickens his pace; with an anguished cry he is done, the sound resonating shockingly in ears as he struggles to keep his knees from buckling beneath him in exquisite release. Hannibal clings to her, breathing ragged as she soothes, tension slowly ebbing from his taut frame.

 

***

 

Forehead resting heavily on her shoulder, Hannibal fought to compose himself as she gently caressed his hair. Bedelia glanced furtively at a clock on the far wall, unwilling to break the transfixing halo in which they were enveloped. Pleasure after all is temporal, the practical outweighed the visceral.

“We have two hours at best before we have to leave, Hannibal.” She gently lifted his head. “Rest.”

Focus slowly returned to his glassy eyes as he straightened himself, padding silently behind her back to the bedroom. Bedelia settled on the bed, watching him as he quietly shed his shirt and trousers, revealing himself once again. She silently drew him into her arms as he curled around her; the heavy, reassuring weight of his frame defied the notion that time would always be their adversary. His grip tightened, head shifting between her shoulder and breast as he sought comfort. She stroked his hair gently, unwilling to console him with hollow words, proximity was all she could offer.

“You understand what you’ve gotten yourself into, Bedelia.” He murmured wistfully, mouthing at a nipple through her blouse as she trailed her fingers across his invitingly warm skin.

“I am fully in control of my own destiny, Hannibal.” She gently smoothed his hair, lightly kissing his forehead.

His brutal, efficient physicality belied the generous, comforting weight that enveloped her; honeyed words, gentle fingers and delicate skin enough to lull any unwitting suitor into complacency. Every inch of him thoroughly enticing, yet the raw, intellectual volatility of their engagement left her shockingly breathless and sanguine. If this was dancing with the devil, she had never felt more alive.

 

***

 

FIN

 


End file.
